


Subtlety

by MilkshakeKate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Mutual Pining, One Shot, ten drabbles really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6220816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkshakeKate/pseuds/MilkshakeKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten small ways in which Illya and Gaby unwillingly weaken, over and over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtlety

**Author's Note:**

> Shorter can be sweeter, so I thought I'd try something new!  
> 10 old fashioned 100 word drabbles, chronological, and so delivering 1k of purely indulgent garbage on my part.  
>  _Not sure why ao3 is counting it as 995 - scrivener, ms word, and the internet confirm each para is 100 words(?). Might just have to take my word for it!_

 

Illya is reading when Gaby appears, her laundry on her hip. His window boasts the washing line, the south-facing view - does he mind?

The sun pours honey orange, dappling, baking her white playsuit a buttery cream; there’s a little bow at her waist, loosened for the relentless heat.

Heavy air billows through the open window, carrying the growl of morning traffic. 

Gaby ducks out to watch a car roar by. She shields her eyes, leaning further— she shrieks.

Illya snatches her arm, pulls her back in. 

 _That was the new Austin-Healey._ She blinks warmly at him.  _Didn't you see?_

 

Gaby returns with eggs and dark bread; Sunday breakfasts, a treat she savours.

Down the hall, loaded and aiming, Illya softens. His jacket - thoughtlessly grabbed - swamps her, with her fingers peeking past his cuffs, her hair tucked into his collar.

_All-nighter at HQ tonight. Just enough time to eat._

He would’ve gone, he says, if she’d asked.

_Are you hungry?_

As she cooks, he yearns to crowd her against the counter; watch her fluttering sheets outside, those broad white flags of surrender.

She parts their breakfasts and sits beside him, yawning, grumbling, slow.

It is more than enough.

 

Solo detains his mark in rural Japan, and calls Gaby from the terminal. She promises a treat for returning home in one piece - an all-American classic.

Illya insists she spice the apples in the Russian way. _That defies the point_ , she reminds him, lingering on his pinches of salt, the cinnamon dusting his palms.

They eat by the window. Solo kisses her crown, wincing, his hand to his wound - the pie was better than any he'd tasted back home.

Illya squints at her, smug, and bids Cowboy goodnight.

She wants to lick the sugar from him. The salt, the spice.

 

She wakes shouting, howling. The door cracks open, a sliver of gold.

 _A nightmare_ , he tells her, low, thickly accented German.

Shakily she turns on her lamp, covers her face with her sweating palms. She had only just found sleep.

 _Tell me the Vinciguerras are dead_ , she groans.

His hand is warm on her shoulder, whole and secure.  _Rest_ , he tells her instead, and settles into her armchair for the night.

Her eyes close to the lamplight. She finds comfort a little easier, with the shield of Illya Kuryakin between she and the door and the rest of the world.

 

When the power cuts, Illya lights candles.

 _Domovoi_ , he explains, suspecting Gaby of meddling,  _is the house spirit in the stove. He strikes back when something in his house is amiss._

Living with Illya is like living with a domovoi, Gaby decides; fearsome, petty, loyal.

Illya doesn’t like this idea - the creature is small, hairy, ill-mannered.

He recites for a cackling Gaby the tales of Ivan Tsarevich, Gamayun, Baba Yaga’s hut on its chicken's legs.

When the power returns he rises, as if to leave. Instead, he plunges them back into candlelight, shifting closer to unveil Russia’s oldest secrets.

 

 _Zip me_ , she beckons.

He enters her bedroom, swallowing, to secure the dress at her hip. The blue chiffon pours over her body like warm water. He pulls up, a sharp hiss amongst all the thrumming quiet. He sweeps her hair aside. His hand lingers on her waist, her bare shoulder, tentative.

She breathes with him.

Then, in one subtle sweep, she reaches up behind her; the nape of his neck, the bristle of his hair; to tilt him down, cheek to cheek, to thank him.

Soft, clean perfume.

He turns her, this rare oddity, to finally, victoriously, kiss her.

 

The moonlight filters in like milk, and she is lying on him when he spots the scar on the back of her thigh. Silvery pink, reflective tissue.

_I didn’t want you to worry._

Illya traces it, waiting for her to wince. She only sinks deeper. When he asks her to be more careful, it’s a confession. She can’t promise him that; can’t promise him anything. But he knows she will try.

So he teaches her the Russian for _blood_ , for _bruise_.

She forgets as soon as he kisses her; his warm, careful push, as skilled and patient as a healer’s.

 

At the terminal, bound for Moscow, he is pale. She takes his unshaven cheek to kiss the clamped line of his jaw.

Solo lets it be.

Illya calls weeks later from a public pay phone, miles from his accommodation. Gaby touches herself idly, listening to the pool of coins rattling in his furious, powerless hands.

They have three minutes.

He asks her to sleep in his bed -- she’s already in it.

He sighs, shivering.

She tells him: _Our domovoi is being mischievous again._

_Is that so?_

_Yes. He makes all the flat cold and empty, now. Everything is amiss._

 

It’s too bitterly cold to dry her sheets. Freezing. She has fixed the electric heater twice over, complaining savagely until Waverly coughs up for a professional.

Solo returns dependably with an armful of root vegetables, a domestic glint in his eye.

She leans her whole weight on him at the stove, confessing the truth about the soviet apple pie. He is only mildly devastated.

Eaten with company, Solo's soup is wholesome; a humble fire, lighting something she’d missed.

They drink cocktails, they dance, and she loves him dearly. Tomorrow, they will work together in Saint-Tropez.

She desperately misses warmth.

 

Blunt, professional, she meets Illya at the airport four months later.

He slips into the passenger seat.

He lets her drive.

Three miles east, 2am, she swerves into the shadow of the highway to tear him open with her teeth.

His hands, fierce, clutching, rend her open, feasting -- he melts, groaning into her neck.

The car is still running when she comes; wild, alive. She knuckles away the tears in her eyes to stare, kiss him, stare again.

Broken, he pulls her into his lap to thumb the wetness from her cheeks, blessing her, and holds on like a vice.

 


End file.
